Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

It was different, you see. Until confronting Carl face-to-face in jail I had been kidding myself, I suppose. But Carl had not been able to tell me that the American allegation was all a dreadful mistake. Indeed, he had admitted to me that he had killed his daughter. I was devastated.

I had to accept that I had been quite wrong about him all those years. And to face the strong likelihood that he had known that I was not a murderer, that he had let me suffer those awful nightmares for six long years without telling me the only thing that could have made it all stop – and all so that he could have control over me. So that I would be dependent on him.

The letters were part of the way in which he kept me dependent. That made such a dreadful kind of sense.

Even so, in spite of what I had told him in his cell – that he had stolen my life from me – it wasn’t really true. Carl had turned me into a fugitive, Carl had taken my freedom from me, but I had to take some responsibility for that too. I had wanted to run away with him and he had not made me unhappy. He had given me a life, a curiously good kind of life, I had to admit. He had promised so long ago when we met in Richmond Park that he would make me happy and at times he had made me quite blissfully happy. I accepted totally that he had loved me – obsessively perhaps, but truly too, there was no doubt about that.

I could even half forgive him the kidnap. Back at home in the comfort of the little house I had shared so contentedly with him it was hard to recall that I had not long ago been frightened of him. It still didn’t seem real, somehow. I was so confused.

Maybe I could eventually forgive him for sending the threatening letters, but what I could not live with, could never forgive or forget, was what he had done before he met me. He had killed his own child – and all through his total inability to let go of anyone he loved. I had suffered enough with guilt because I thought I had killed a violent, drunken monster of a man. Carl had been responsible for the death of an innocent child. He had assumed a different personality and invaded my life, and all the time kept his past, even his real name, a secret from me.

I wondered how he had managed to do that for all those years. We had been so close. At least I thought we had been so close.

I slumped into a kind of trance, reliving my years with Carl, going over and over all that I had learned, all that had happened. I lost track of how long I stayed like that, but I suppose I knew that several days must have passed. Physically I felt lethargic and washed out, but there were no signs that the pneumonia threatened to return.

I ate everything that Mariette had brought, all the eggs and milk and cheese, the potatoes and the other vegetables, and all the fruit plus the stale digestive biscuits and a tin of sardines I found lurking in a corner of the cupboard. I wasn’t hungry and had no interest whatsoever in food. I ate automatically and for comfort in the same way that I slept, welcoming oblivion again and again.

But when the food ran out I did not consider shopping for more provisions.

I had little concept of night and day. I kept the curtains drawn all the time. I cocooned myself in my own misery.

At some stage a letter arrived from Carl:

My darling Suzanne,

I know I have hurt you but all I wanted to do was to look after you. Please come to see me again and I will try to explain everything to you. I love you so much. I had to keep you safe...

There was more of the same but I was no longer impressed by it. He did not mention his daughter once. In fact, the letter only increased my anger and sense of betrayal. I tore it into small pieces and flushed it down the lavatory.

Intermittently, somebody or other knocked on the front door. The days passed. In a way they were endless, it was as if time had stopped. I continued to ignore callers. Mariette always shouted through the letter box. She began to sound increasingly anxious. I don’t know why I couldn’t bring myself at least to speak to her. But I just didn’t want to be bothered.

Eventually, early one evening, I heard a particularly loud, authoritative knock on the door, followed by Mariette’s voice through the letter box: ‘Suzanne, please, please open the door. I’ve been so worried about you.’

Again I did not respond.

Then I heard a man’s voice. ‘Mrs Peters, are you there? This is the police. Constable Brownly. Please open the door.’ He repeated the request several times. Then he said: ‘Mrs Peters, I’m concerned about your safety and your health. I should warn you that if you don’t answer the door I’m going to break in. If you’re there, please answer.’

I had been sitting at the top of the stairs, hugging my knees to my chin. Almost grateful that a kind of deadlock had been broken, I got to my feet and stumbled downstairs. My movements seemed clumsy. I knew that once more I was barely functioning.

I opened the front door. Constable Brownly, a very young uniformed officer, looked relieved and as if he didn’t know what to do or say next.

Mariette’s face, breaking into a smile as I pulled the door towards me, changed to an expression of shock when she saw me.

I hadn’t washed or changed my clothes in the time I had shut myself away in the cottage. And I had not even really thought about it until this moment. There were dirty dishes all over the place. My usually immaculate little home was a mess and so was I. That would never have been allowed were Carl still in residence, I reflected obliquely, and just thinking about Carl cut into me again.

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t find words. All I could feel was a dreadful blankness.

Mariette didn’t say anything either. She just stepped towards me and hugged me.

I started to cry again then. And I just couldn’t stop.

Mariette took me home and, with remarkable fortitude, her mother agreed that I could stay, even though the cottage was so small and had only two bedrooms. Mariette insisted on giving up her own pretty room at the back of the house for me and said she would be quite comfortable on the sofa bed in the brass-ornamented front room downstairs.

I had neither the grace nor the energy to protest. She undressed me, washed me, lent me a nightie and tucked me up in the little single bed. Still I could not stop crying.

‘Mum’s called the doctor,’ she said.

I began to protest.

‘No, you need help. Something to calm you down, maybe.’

I protested more loudly. ‘No,’ I more or less shouted. ‘No, no more drugs.’

‘All right, shush,’ said Mariette, who was proving to be extremely stoical. ‘Whatever you say. Nobody’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to ever again. I won’t let the doctor bully you, don’t worry about that.’

I gave in. She was probably right. I did need help.

The doctor turned out to be a young blond woman with old eyes. She introduced herself as Mavis Tompkins and in spite of her age was one of those people who instantly inspired confidence. Quite a bonus for a doctor, I thought. You almost felt better just for seeing her. We talked about therapy and victim support more than drugs, and, although her manner could not have been further from any kind of bullying, I did allow myself to be coaxed into agreeing to virtually all her suggestions.

‘Not yet, though, not yet,’ I said anxiously, after saying, yes, I would see a therapist.

‘All right, not yet,’ she acceeded perhaps reluctantly, as I buried myself yet again in the dark warmth of Mariette’s bed.

I stayed with Mariette for almost three weeks, regaining mental and physical strength, and I shall always be grateful for the patience and support she and her mother unstintingly gave me.

During that time I made no attempt to enquire about Carl and what was happening to him, and I heard nothing further from the police. DS Perry was still in Plymouth, more than likely, and DC Carter was not the kind of man who would make contact if he could avoid doing so. He wouldn’t want to risk stirring up trouble for himself unnecessarily.